


find another life to live (i'm sure you'll get over it)

by elkeihs



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, M/M, and Helen is an accomplished nurse facing sexism, and bucky needs love but REALLY, and she heals him up basically, and this is WWII au, it is sort of fluffy as well?? to balance the sad stuff, lots of cameos i think, oh boy here is another sad one, where Bucky is rescued after the fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 21:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7123045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elkeihs/pseuds/elkeihs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>her eyes are brimming with compassion, smile sad and pained,</p><p>"aren't we all trying to make good of this world?"</p><p> </p><p>in which bucky is rescued after that dreadful fall, and meets an angel in clinical soap and cheeky comments</p>
            </blockquote>





	find another life to live (i'm sure you'll get over it)

**Author's Note:**

> longest fic posted here! i should really get the rest on ao3
> 
> hoo boy hoo boy this is such a gorgeous rarepair that it pains me not seeing my lovelies (thank you very much, tumblr users chalantness, sevensneakyfoxes who wrote these two beautifully in drabbles and caused innocent individuals to get hooked)
> 
> and this can also be steve/bucky if you squint i guess
> 
> also helen is an absolutely badass who needs more love and recognition in MCU (beyond bringing back certain speedsters from the dead in fics)
> 
> so this is a world war II au revolving around both bucky's and helen's perspectives (and steve too just once) and features tons of other characters in the MCU (darcy lewis and amazing female scientists!! yes)
> 
> okay hope you enjoy! and also leave me any comments i really appreciate any constructive criticism

find another life to live (i'm sure you'll get over it)

 

 

 

(pull yourself together damnit)

 

 

The first time he sees her, it hurts so blindingly bad that he scrunches his eyes shut and has to bite his damn cheek to keep from making a sound.   
It proves to be unsuccessful, and he lets out a low groan inspite of his efforts. She swivels around, papers clutched tightly in graceful hands, and he is struck by how foreign she looks. Definitely not like the dames round town, with their arching eyebrows and red lips, and her eyes light up just a little at his consciousness. She hurries forward and opens her mouth to say something, but before she can do anything, he is drifting off into that ever elusive hold of sleep and god, he's tired. 

 

 

He dreams of Steve and a little red wagon and fistfights in alleys with a resolute fondness.

 

 

When he wakes again, it is night (or rather, what appears to be night through the tepid beige canvas of the tent.) No one is at his bedside today, and nothing distracts from the poor quality of this mattress. Somehow the higher ups neglected healthcare in the war effort, these medics need more funding, he can feel every spring through the threadbare cotton. It is better than the metal table Hydra strapped him into, but minutely so. Delving into his memories to ease up the discomfort, he recalls the fall with intricate detailing. The wrench  
of the railing and the pain in Steve's eyes as he fell through the air. It was terrifying, plummeting backwards, but the brunt of the fall was absorbed by the snow, before he was tossed around like a rag doll till the bank of river. It was a god-awful cold that set in, and suddenly all he remembers was the blood. There was just so so much crimson unnaturally gushing everywhere and it was all over his hands. He slipped into unconsciousness sometime then, lying on the bank and waiting for a sign, for Steve, for death. As for the slick red that coated his fumbling fingers, he isn't even sure if its his or a nameless Nazi's, but it is bloodshed nonetheless.

 

(Picture this if you will; a broken body framed by pooling red sprawled on pristine blinding white. Quite a sight he must have been.)

 

The bustle of what seems to be a makeshift hospital is relatively dull. Metallic clangs sound from the left, accompanied by laboured breathing and hushed voices. There are the sounds of pain sinking in from all sides, and he clutches the sheets and tries to regulate his breathing. His sides hurt a bit, probably took a fracture near the abdomen, and his left shoulder and right leg are throbbing with an increasing intensity. It feels strangely airy from his left. Surveying his wounds, he doesn't feel too bad until his hand grasps at empty air where there should be his left arm. 

 

Shit.   
Shit   
shit   
shitshitshitshit  
holy fuck what happened  
shit

 

The curtains to the left are ripped aside suddenly, and he starts like a deer in headlights. The pretty foreign nurse is deep in conversation with another, brows furrowed and voices low and it looks to be a sombre affair. Her eyes flicker up and they latch onto his. His words can't seem to go past his throat and she rushes forward, grabbing a glass of water off a work station. She is holding up the straw to help him out and he swears this is the best water he's ever had. After he's had his fill and his stomach feels pumped with liquid, she is peering into his eyes with a feeble flashlight and scribbling frantically onto a clipboard.

 

"James, right?"

"That'll be me, do you mind filling a guy in?"

 

She takes a deep breath, mouth thinning a little and eyes heavy with unsaid worries.

 

"James, you lost a lot of blood from that fall off the train, During which, your arm was badly lacerated, nerves and main muscle groups damaged beyond repair. We could not tend to it. Thankfully, the fall did not impact your spine or skull, which would have been undoubtedly fatal. You've broken your leg and splintered a rib. Considering the height and terrain you were in, your injuries are reasonably mild. Of course, whatever the doctors did at Hydra increased your healing capabilities and resistance to harm, which probably saved your life. Regarding your arm, I've stitched it up, but until your platelets kick into action, the blood won't stop flowing. I'll need to change your dressings every few hours until you're able to do it yourself. You are very lucky to have survived. Not many men could've said the same.

I'll leave you to rest for now, but I'll change this first."

 

Her fingers are feather light to the touch, but he still winces at the impact to his raw shoulder. She is nimble though, and the sharp pain lessens to a duller, more constant level. Her eyes are focussed, intelligent as she surveys the soiled dressing and the state of his mangled shoulder. She exhales a bit before inquiring as to whether he would like some food. He declines and she nods, voice kind and laced with empathy,

 

"Rest well, James."

 

Her retreating form serves as some sort of trigger to his mother's teachings, and he calls out hoarsely,

"Its mighty rude of me not to know a lady's name,"

She turns a little, a hint of a smile dancing on her lips. 

 

 

You can call me Doctor Cho. And then in a flurry of crisp linen, she is gone.

 

The man on the bed to his left dies that night.

 

 

 

"Good morning, James."

"Morning, Doc. Its just, my friends usually call me Bucky."

"Well, your uniform tag says James."

He leaves it at that, because he kind of likes the way the rounded assonance of his name sounds in her pleasant voice. While she busies herself with preparing some rationed food, he takes his time to observe her.

Her hands are small and fair, her hair haphazardly tucked behind her ears and pulled into an updo, and her face looks void of any makeup. (Not that Bucky is really good at identifying cosmetics, Lord no.) She is once again in crisp off-white attire, that bears some crinkling near her thighs. He assumes she bunches the fabric there rather often, fretting over patients and whatnot.

After placing his food tray in a less precarious position on his lap, she sits at his bedside, and strikes up conversation. She asks about his wellbeing, and they have pleasant chit chat, something people don't really have the pleasure for in the midst of a war. 

For some reason, he tell her about Steve. About how he worries for this brand new hero, about how Steve was to him, a scrawny undersized boy who fought bullies double his weight (Captain America? THE Captain America?) How he always had to check in every alley and corner, hoping not to catch a glimpse of an unmatched fistfight. He laughs, but it is bitter.

Her eyes are brimming with compassion, and she says something that resounds deep in him.

 

 

Aren't we all just trying to make good of this world?

 

 

She changes his bandages with practiced ease, listening intently as he relives a life so far away. A cry sounds out to the right, and she flashes him a smile, sad but comforting. She brushes herself off, pats his (good) shoulder and leaps back into action to attend to that patient.

 

The food served tastes pretty good, and he's sure her presence had something to do with him enjoying canned beans and limp cold chicken strips.

 

 

It becomes a daily routine, and Bucky finds himself looking forward to the moments he finds himself in her company.

She makes the effort to talk to him. Him, and only him, for she never inquires about Steve. He's well aware that with the new development of Captain America (blessed with god-like physique and astounding good looks), he doesn't really have a chance standing next to Steve. Here, in this hospital bed, he is ironically tangible. Here, he isn't invisible.

The hospital is makeshift, it was only an emergency base. Situated precariously close to ex-Hydra territory, it was mainly unused, but with the Howling Commandos (he thinks with pride) blasting Hydra left right and centre, it was deemed permissible for emergency treatment. Treatment required for men on the brink of death like him. Regardless of the hastily set up hospital, it is sufficiently armed. (Something having to do with Captain America's best friend being here.) During the day, at least, because when night looms, it is restricted to the minimal lighting from oil lamps. Situated here are perhaps some of the best scientific minds of women, whip smart with soaring grades, who despite their desire to aid the war effort, have been assigned to healthcare while their male classmates experiment with bombs and machines that turn tides. Not that he's complaining, of course, its damn nice to have a pretty dame fuss over him.

 

 

Her name is Helen, he learns after a nurse calls out, and he sees her scuttle over, clutching paperwork and looking apprehensive.

He-len. HEH-len. HeHH-len. He decides that he likes that name. There is something about her that intrigues, enthralls him, and while he has had his fair share of dames, she feels so different. Maybe its the war, but then, many things can be traced back to the war. She just looks so solid, so real, in a world where he cannot discern between dream and reality. 

 

 

He sees Steve by his bedside, wiggling his eyebrows and throwing him a thumbs up.

 

She helps him remain presentable too. With the loss of his arm, his other hand feels clumsy, heavy, unnatural. The makeshift hospital also lacks necessary mirrors and body maintenance essentials, so she makes do with a surgical razor and washcloths (he can't exactly walk to the shower with a broken leg). Every week or so, he washes himself with a wet towel, and she shaves him. He sits up as she enters what constitutes as his room, arms laden with the wash basin, a towel and the bare necessities. She draws the curtains round his room closed, and settles down the basin. The mattress sinks a little as she perches beside his thigh, razor and soap at the ready. 

Another thing is that she always waits for his permission to touch him. Lying on the metal tables of Hydra seem to haunt his dreams just a little. After his nod, she would gather his face in her left hand, and with flicks of her wrist, adjust his chin accordingly to the razor in her right. He watches her while she shaves off the week's worth of stubble, her eyes sharp and concentrated. The places where she unknowingly brushes, his small of neck, his sensitive underside of his chin, the occasional collarbone or chest, they all erupt in goosebumps. She is warm, even without physical contact, her heat sort of radiates around him. He watches her eyelashes that flutter, her lips that open just a bit when she lets out a breath, her stray hair that sometimes tickles a little when she leans to the side (and almost onto him) as she maneuvers the jawline. 

 

He won't pretend that he's never had spectacularly intricate dreams about this. There isn't much to do, laying around all day. Daydreams where she leans in halfway, and kisses him senseless, and her skin is as hot to the touch. Where she breathes out, James, through swollen lips and he doesn't have any wounds whatsoever. He's a hotblooded male with eyes and an active mind, so sue him.

 

She would leave when she's done with the razor, and he's left in privacy to wash himself. The first week, he joked.

"What, not helping me with the rest? I assure you its not that bad," and threw in a wink for good measure.

 

She laughed and it was clear and bright, and he wanted to etch it in his memory.

 

"Please, James. No weapons allowed here," she quips, "not that it can be considered dangerous."

 

She raises a finger gun (pew pew) before quirking a lip up, eyes flashing coy and mischievous as she retreats through the beige curtains. Leaves him openmouthed and reeling at the sassiness of a tiny Asian nurse.

 

 

Jesus, what a woman.

 

 

Once he asked her, "So does Steve know I'm here? When's he coming?"

She bit her bottom lip and averted her eyes, suddenly finding great interest in the bandage gauze in her hands.

"Steve, Steve doesn't know you're alive. They, um, I really shouldn't be telling you this. Senator decided that the news of your survival should only break, when the war is won. Because, uh" she waves her hands in imitation quotations, "something about not wanting Rogers to get sidetracked finding his buddy."

 

She is quiet as he rages and thrashes and wears himself out. 

 

("He stayed in a rigged building triggered to detonate, for me, he jumped across explosions, saved troops and thousands of potential victims, and he doesn't have the right to know I'm here? I bet he's beating himself up over my fall, he's blaming himself, because he's Steve, and that punk is keeping this underground?")

 

 

She is quiet as he cries, and cries for his sisters, for his family, for his life.

 

 

She envelops him in her arms, and he breathes in that clinical soap and vanilla mix he associates with her.

 

 

 

He thinks underneath all the hurt and the pain, he may be falling for her.

Steve would know what to do. Steve will look at him slyly, and poke at his side, (Geez Buck, you're goin' all soft) and they would laugh and laugh and laugh. 

 

 

Damnit Steve, I wish you were here.

 

 

 

"Hey Doc Helen"  
"Hello to you too, James."

 

 

 

Eventually, she manages to stitch up all the injuries and stilt his broken leg into place, thankfully without any repercussions. Sometimes when he's feeling particularly saddened, he runs his fingers along the neat little row of stitches, and imagines her sitting there, brows furrowed and lips pursed, as she draws the skin together again. 

 

(She had told him, your own girlfriend won't know the difference. He asserted, no girlfriend, with a shrug of his shoulder and a cheeky smile. She cocked an eyebrow and smirked. 

That I can't change.)

 

There really isn't much to do when you're bedridden. Helen drops by in the mornings with a tray of food, a smile, and a clean set of dressings. But more often than not, she disappears just as quick, with more pressing matters than him on hand. He has exercises in the afternoons, where Helen comes round to change his bandages and inspect his wounds, scribbling hastily in that clipboard. After that, she accompanies and supports him as they walk around the hospital compound. The compound isn't large, but he always ends up sweaty and sore to the bone. Even with crutches, and Helen's help, he cannot walk far before being hit by waves of pain that pulsate from his thigh.

 

Even then, he draws comfort from the small hand wrapped around his torso, and her murmurs of encouragement that she breathes into his ear.

 

She doesn't visit during her free time as often, the influx of wounded men ever increasing as the war climaxes and both sides eager to end. But she visits nonetheless, and they discuss art, science, music, and everything in between.

 

(On a sleepy afternoon as the sun hangs yellow and lazy, she tells him,

"I've been working on something. Of course, its not ready and likely never will be, because of insufficient materials, and who's going to fund me? Funding an Easterner? And more so, a woman?"

She laughs a bit, short sharp and humourless.

"It can help so many people," she adds, voice somehow softer and sadder.

He listens and tries to understand as she explains the SCIENCE! behind what he supposes is a medical miracle. A tissue rebuilding, muscle making machine. Mind-boggling, how she envisions, creates such wonders. But then, he recalls that Super Soldier Serum Steve was pumped full of, and shrugs. He pats her shoulder, nah Doc you'll do it, and her eyes sparkle.)

 

 

 

It is peaceful. 

It is nice. 

(Ha, Steve says with a quirk of a lip.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen wheels a new patient in, a man with a mop of white blonde hair, bullets riddling his body, and glances down at his name tag. She freezes. All thought of writing a new medical file zip out her brain. 

 

This is not Thor Odinson. 

 

 

this is not Thor Odinson  
this is not Thor Odinson  
thisisnotthorodinson

 

She wants to scream for Jane, but her more rational, more practical side stops her. She looks deep into this unknown man's face, trying to weed out guilt, but he is unconscious, and his sleeping face reveals nothing. She knew Thor, having gone to the same university as Jane and all. As two women in a field so dominated by testosterone, they clicked with ease. Helen was even a little sweet on Thor, just a schoolgirl crush over his biceps, the few times he had come over. Her breathing feels restricted, like someone is squeezing on her windpipe like putty, and she blinks hot tears away. It hurts so much, the inevitable pain for Jane bleeds into her, and she can't breathe. 

 

Jane, who was engaged.  
Jane who was so in love, who was so loved.   
Jane who now has no Thor.

 

She chokes a bit on her tears, and resolutely parks this man on the bed to the right of Bucky. He needs to live, this wrong blonde man, just so she can find some answers.

She unhooks the wrong name tag, and slips it into her skirt pocket. Sets her mouth into a grim line, and starts work.

 

Its hard, trying to heal someone who suffers from such extensive wounds, but by some stroke of pity from the gods, he lives. Sure, it took a week of heavy recuperation and unconscious healing till his eyes opened, but Helen likes to think optimistically. The first thing he says, is WANDA. WANDA, Wanda, accompanied by a curiously inflected Eastern European accent. Helen goes through the notions of calming him down, waits for his breathing to slow, waits for his eyes to anchor to hers.

She asks questions, and he answers.

His name is Pietro Maximoff, he is not Thor Odinson, nor does he know who Thor Odinson is. Nazis invaded his homeland, and his sister and him were made to join the Nazi Party, the Axis Powers. Separated from his sister and sent here to attempt to infiltrate and sabotage the Allies. It was a suicide mission, and they knew it, they gave him a bloodied uniform, and bid him adieu. 

 

Dispensable.

 

Helen is quiet, and her thoughts swirl like a stained washcloth in water.

Do-do you want anything?

He shakes his head, and he is so tired and so so sad.

 

I just want my sister. 

 

His voice catches a little and his chest heaves, eyes darting quickly to the beige canvas ceiling.

Helen tends to the rest of his wounds, doesn't say a word, but grasps his hand and tries for a smile.

 

It says, everything will be alright. 

 

It is a lie, and they both know it.

 

 

He is too young for this. We are all too young for this, she thinks bitterly. She dreams of a faceless girl with a voice laced with the same Eastern European accent, calling for Pietro Maximoff all night long.

 

He is gone the next morning. Leaving nothing but bloodied bedsheets and a letter with poor penmanship addressed to her.

 

 

(Thank you for all you have done. I am grateful that you would save the life of the enemy. I will search for my sister. I am sorry about Thor Odinson, but it is what has happened.

Signed,  
Pietro)

 

 

 

That night, she goes to Jane, holding out her palm. Like with any situation, this is the calm before the storm. Jane's eyes are fixated on the little tag in Helen's hand, as if staring at it hard enough will bring back the dead. As if staring at it hard enough will stop the claws ripping out her heart. Jane's hand swipes out, and the tag is solid and horribly tangible.

 

Stained bronze bearing Thor Odinson's name clatters to the ground. 

 

With a cry, they sink to the floor together, one heap of despair. Jane is clutching desperately at her, tears mingling with Helen's, voice raw and pained, as she howls and sobs for a dead man. Jane's shoulders are shuddering and shaking with loss, and her mouth open and bleak and 

s c r e a m i n g

screaming hoarsely, something about the fairness of war, something about all the things that could've been, something about love, emotion overpowering her as she shakes with pain. It is not beautiful, it is not pretty, it is raw and unhinged and ugly. Jane, passive by nature, is heaving with the words she tries to get out, stumbling over her chokes and tears as she calls for a man no longer living. They are one, bounded by grief and sadness originating from a coldblooded war. 

 

 

Jane's anguish seeps into the night sky, and Helen reins her in, holds her close, and cries.

 

 

She works even harder after that, tending to her patients with the best of her ability. When they wheel in a someone swimming in an oversized uniform, with a petite frame, and delicate features, she takes over. The patient is a girl, a very pretty girl, with haunting good looks past-Helen would've envied.

 

Betty pulls her aside, and divulges information. She was asking, muttering nonstop, pleading for her brother, for anyone, for someone to save her. She was found in the enemy camp, violated and broken. They kept her in a straightjacket, and used her and abused her, and that was how she was found, motionless in the floor. Helen has to swallow hard, and her mind draws up all the horror stories of women in war. Taken as spoils, taken as pleasures.

 

 

When her eyes fly open, and she thrashes around on the hospital bed, Helen swoops in and steadies her with a hand to her shoulder. Her white hand scrabbles for Helen's, as if gripping it tethers her to earth. Her eyes are darting around the hospital furiously, horrible sights and experiences beyond her years are reflected in her dark orbs. She is pale, and she can't be more than 25.

 

 

Her voice is raspy and hoarse, PIETRO, have you seen Pietro? Have you seen my brother? 

 

 

Helen turns away. (The very same Eastern European accent with the lilts of inflection.)

 

 

Wanda Maximoff grows very quiet. She doesn't speak. Helen gives her the note he left, and Wanda clings to it like a lifeline. She traces the scratches of lead bearing his name like salvation.

 

 

Helen wants to cry.

 

 

Helen is tired, and her eyes have seen horrible, heartwrenching things. 

She sits by James' bedside, and they talk into the night. She tells him everything, how hard it is to wake up everyday, how painful it is to lose patients, how she can't breathe every so often, how stupid this whole war is, how she wishes she could do more, how she loves everyone so so much. 

 

At some point, her voice breaks off and she is wrecked with sobs. 

 

 

Bucky does not know what to do.

 

 

 

Hey, hey, hey,   
Doc, Doc.   
Doc.   
Helen, Helen, Helen,  
shhhh,   
shhhhhhhhh,   
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

 

 

 

 

He gathers her with his arm until she is tucked against him and he winces a little when she grips his torso, her chest heaving and shoulders erratic as she sobs. He strokes her hair, soft and ticklish, and leans his head on the crown of hers, murmuring reassurances and promises he doesn't know to be true. Its a little uncomfortable, holding someone as distraught as she, but he persists.

 

After a while, Helen sniffles and scrubs her face, before she laughs.

 

"God, I bet I got snot all over you."

 

He chuckles, and their bodies shake with mirth.

 

 

"Maybe a kiss from a good doctor could make up for it?"

 

 

 

She tastes exactly like he imagined. 

 

 

 

(Her breath was hot as she shimmied her body up a bit, and her weight was comfortable on his chest, he's carried gear heavier than this. She presses her lips to his tentatively, and then urgently, like she was seeking solace. Her eyes fluttered shut and her mouth was delightfully hot, and she tasted like peppermints and chamomile tea. When his hand crept below her blouse and touched her exposed skin of her waist, as warm as he imagined, they groaned in unison. She may have even called his name. 

Before the physical contact jolted her awake, and her lips left his with a slick pop.)

 

I shouldn't be doing this. I can't be doing this. Oh my god. Oh my god James. Oh god.

She swears on the Holy Spirit a few more times, before tucking her hair behind her ears, straightening out her bunched skirt, and hightailing out of his sight, curtains swishing shut.

 

He is left in the dark with a raging physical pain in his nether regions, and a heartbeat still skyrocketing.

 

 

The next morning, she comes in as per usual, changes his bandages with swift efficiency, and places a tray of food on his lap. She turns to go.

 

"Hey, hey, Helen, are-are you just going to forget what happened?"

 

Bucky searches her face, and he sees a tirade of conflicting emotions. Guilt, sadness, uncertainty. Her shoulders seem to sag a little, and she lets out a long breath.

 

"I can't do that. I can't do that to you. You know how war tears people apart, James. I'm sorry. What happened last night was- was an emotional glitch. I still hope to be friends with you James. You're a great guy." 

 

 

Ouch.

 

 

And just as quickly as she entered, she disappears.

 

He lies back down, and the mattress feels condescending, feels mocking. The food doesn't taste so great after all.

 

They fall back into an easy friendship, but nothing more. She talks with him about all aspects of life, and they converse with one another like one who greets an old friend. He still teases her (but maybe watches the line a bit more), and she still retorts quickly (but maybe with less gusto). She abstains completely from unnecessary physical contact.

 

 

 

He dreams of Steve and his stupid insightful advice.

 

 

 

Helen likes James. She really really does, likes his crinkly eyes when he smiles at her, the ridiculous tousled hair he pulls off, likes his attentiveness as she launches into topics she loves. She might even say she could love him, if the situation was different, if the war wasn't happening. But she knows, knows all too well, the stakes of being in a relationship in the middle of such a conflict. She thinks of Jane, with empty eyes and sallower cheeks from lack of sleep, who moves slower, sometimes even catatonically. Jane, who loved with all her heart, and had it mushed to a pulp by the great big boots of war.

 

She likes him a lot, but the inevitable tragedy of a relationship outvotes her heart.

 

She also has a new patient who she regularly engages in conversation with. He's fairly older, and he has a loving family back home. Clint Barton talks to her about his two lovely daughters, and the son he's expecting, his beautiful wife. Clint is also an amazing influence on Wanda, who has started eating again. Unfortunately, Clint Barton is only human and he suffers from a terribly accurate shot to his stomach.

The skin is inflammed, and is in a mangled mess of torn flesh the eyes are not to be exposed to. The signs of blood poisoning creep along the ridges, dark and ominous.

Helen thinks of Clint's Laura, and his kids, as she patches him up to the best of her abilities. When she asks him, why do you reveal so much to me? He is silent, words carefully chosen and thoughts pondered, before

 

 

"I guess I just wanted someone else to remember them when I'm gone."

 

 

('I know a hopeless case when I see one, Doctor.' he does not say but it is unspoken.)

 

 

Clint Barton dies in less than a week, the blackened veins wrapped around him like death's clutches. Helen thinks of Laura and her three kids, lobs in Wanda too, and sees another family among the thousands, ripped apart by war. 

 

Are we really pressing on to a victory? At what stakes?

 

Helen holds her head in her hands as they wheel Clint's body out to be dumped unceremoniously in a grave not befitting a war victim.

 

Funny how war changes people. Darcy, loud-mouthed, loyal and naturally comedic, tells her, its not your fault. You couldn't have done anything about that. And hugs her until all the guilt seeps out of Helen.

 

She writes a letter addressed to Laura Barton and her three kids.   
She never mails it.

 

 

After that, she loves everyone a little harder, and feels a little more for each victim passed through the hospital.

 

One afternoon, she is busy. Too busy to tend to Bucky, as they brought in a young man, barely older than 17, who sneaked into the army. He was a resilient advocate against injustice, and with a splattering of shots to the back. Helen can almost imagine the way he falls.

 

Spine curving gracefully, unnaturally. Mouth probably open in surprise, as bullets explode out of his burning chest. Eyes widening slightly as snow tinges red with his blood, body crumbling slowly, knees first, as he falls to the ground and doesn't get up.

 

 

Peter Parker is not even 18, and he does not last the night.

 

 

Bucky takes it upon himself to carry out the afternoon exercises. He saw Helen, hunched over and deep in work on a teenager, who the other soldiers are exalting as a hero.

 

His decision is a bit stupid really, since the clutches' aid is mediocre, and without a steady form to his side, he is unstable and volatile.

 

As he falls, amazingly in what feels like slow motion, he sees her swivel around in shock and their eyes meet. 

 

JAMES, she cries out, James, James, wait! And utters a horrified gasp when he hits the ground hard.

 

 

 

Shit. Really bad decision. He probably tore up some stitches on his shoulder. It hurts, and Helen is kneeling next to him, face clouded with worry as she mutters about his idiocy. She supports his weight, and with Betty's help, parks him  
into his bed. While she stitches up his partially healed wound again, she finds comfort in scolding him.

 

 

 

God, James. What were you thinking?

 

(What was he thinking? Honestly he doesn't know.)

 

 

 

 

Later, when the moon wanes high, he wakes up all of a sudden. He feels a little like he has intruded on something private, something intimate. Helen is on the chair by his bedside, asleep and unguarded, her small hand entwined with his larger one. Her face is void of the usual lines of worry, and with moonlight trickling in, her beauty is effervescent.

 

Maybe it wasn't such a bad decision after all.

 

He squeezes her hand, and it could have been a trick of the light, but he swears she smiles.

 

 

 

 

They receive a radio, in the latest supply delivery, and it's not gorgeous. It is ancient, and the transmissions are known to warble, but the sound that it produces is rich and warm. They've taken to bringing around the little clunk of joy, whether to hear grainy weather reports, or a silver of deep singing. The signal they receive out in the middle of nowhere is shoddy, to say the least, but if they're lucky sometimes it catches and the hospital is filled with flickers of joy.

 

She hums as he talks to her about life back home. The swing dances he and Steve attended, not that they were much good, but more so the selection of people there were interesting. She raises her brow a bit, and he shrugs.

 

"Well I'm no saint, Doc." A wry smirk stretches across the planes of his face, and his eyes sparkle boyishly.

"Never implied you were, James." She laughs with exasperation, a fond smile betraying her emotions.

 

The evening radio surges with sudden gusto, playing a fun foxtrot of a melody, lively and full of energy, not something unlike what they'd play at one of Bucky's swings. The music is rich like the inky night sky painted above them through the beige of the canvas.

 

 

 

Hey Doc, want to dance?

 

 

She declines originally, but he insists. 

 

(c'mon you deserve some fun! Steve is to the side again, cajoling, shoulders shaking in mirth)

 

Its a bit of hassle, trying to get into a correct position, but Bucky's recovery is progressing smoother than expected. They stumble around a bit, laughing and fumbling with each others' limbs. Eventually they settle on Bucky's right hand on her waist, which she grasps, and her other hand resting lightly on his bad shoulder. The song continues jovially, and they trot around the restricted area, grins blindingly white (and just for a moment, there is no war, there is no grief.)

 

 

It is the dead of the night, and the radio croons feebly now. If Helen strains her ears a bit, she can make out warm alto vocals, accompanied by unobtrusively individualistic jazz.

 

"Sinatra," she confirms, and her arms are now wound round his torso, and his around hers. Her head is nestled near a comfortably steady heartbeat, and she feels the rise and fall of every breath he takes. He is warm, almost like a fireplace, and real. They sway like drunkards.

 

She just wants to hold him, hold him so he doesn't slip away like countless others. (She remembers someone told her, love was hard. Sometimes you clutch too hard, and it breaks. And other times you hold too loosely, and it is lost. But ultimately, very rarely were you able to keep it.)

 

 

 

"James," she whispers tentatively.

What's up, Doc?

 

 

 

SCREW IT, her mind yells.

She tiptoes and yanks his face down with her hands, presses her lips to his with an urgency she didn't know she possessed. He is surprised, and she can tell, because he stands ramrod straight for a split second, lips partly open and stiff. He recovers quickly though, and kisses back eagerly. Their mouths are hot and slick and her hands have somehow wandered down to the expanse of his chest, and he is tracing the outline of her jaw. 

 

 

Why didn't she do this sooner?

 

 

When they break apart, her head is floating in an endless sky of elation.

"I guess I just- I wanted to- Look, I really really like you, James."

His face is illuminated by the kodak yellow lamplight, smoothing out the toils of wartime on men too young.

 

 

 

His eyes are stars. His eyes are the brightest of stars.

 

 

 

 

Helen looks flustered. Her eyelids are lowered ever so slightly, dark lashes framing her flickering eyes that search his face. Her cheeks are tinged pink, and her words aren't as refined and calculated and her breathing still hasn't regulated. He's a little proud of that.

 

"James, this silence isn't doing me wonders."

 

 

"You're in luck, because I really like you too."

 

 

And he lowers his lips to hers and it is soft and sweet and they are smiling like lovestruck fools.

 

 

 

Oh, the things they could be. 

Oh, the things that could have been.

 

 

 

The next few days pass uneventfully. With the exception of Helen's company, there is truly nothing remarkable that happens. 

(Oh, but just wait.)

 

 

 

 

"The war is ending!"

 

she announces one afternoon, telegram clutched in trembling fingers. The abandonment of her joy spreads across her face, and there is Betty, rushing over, face simultaneously aghast and overjoyed. Jane drops her clipboard almost comically, hastily swiping at her eyes before tackling Helen in a hug. Darcy is a blur, bringing the women down to the floor, and she triumphantly emerges with the letter. To the appreciation of the audience, she reads it out, voice loud and clear, smile growing larger with each sentence.

 

The war is ending. 

 

 

That night, Helen comes by with eyes gleaming and magnificent, as her smile threatens to overwhelm her face. Bucky reciprocates it, to a lesser extent, but he feels the same. 

 

Finally, it is unsaid.

 

"Scoot over." she urges, and backs it up with a nudge to his side. After clearing enough space, she crawls onto the mattress, head tucked around the crook of his arm.

 

He can feel her infectious joy through his shirt, and listens fondly as she waves her hands with fluttering enthusiasm, and launches into a topic he's lucky to catch 3 sentences of. Suddenly, she stops.

 

 

James? Is this- whatever we are- going to continue? After the war?

Doll, for you, anything.

 

 

She smiles coyly, lips tilting up shyly and she snuggles even closer. In a moment of something delicately affectionate, she pecks his cheek, before she closes her eyes in search of a good rest. He feels the stirrings of something profound, and he swears that he'll be with her for however long he can. He whispers this, accompanied by a poorly done joke on how he'll return as a bitter old ghost to frown at her. 

She laughs, and tells him, "not if I do that first."

 

With his arm around Helen, Bucky feels that the makeshift hospital bears a startling resemblance to home. 

Home. (now isn't that a thought?)

 

 

Steve would stand by the side, quirking a lip.

 

 

 

Something is wrong. The atmosphere feels violated, feels far tenser than the hospital he is accustomed to. He doesn't know what is happening, but his intuition is racing a mile a minute. He nudges the nestled form on his side. Helen raises her head, blinking sleep from her eyes groggily as his mind races with thoughts he hates. She swivels her head to look at him, and the white of her eyes are flashing bright in the darkness. There is fear reflected in her glassy orbs (what is it?) and he's sure she sees the same in his. She breathes out short and hushed,

 

"James." 

 

Monosyllabic and hurried, worried, telling of her anxiety. He kisses the crown of her head and murmurs some reassurances (everything is going to be fine everything is going to be fine i'll keep you safe goddamnit everythingisgoingtobefine). She grips his shirt tighter, and he winds his arm closer around her frame.

 

And then the curtains are ripped aside, and she-

 

 

She is ripped away from his grasp. 

 

 

They are forced upright and musty gloves clamp over their mouths. Bucky breathes in sweat and petroleum and something metallic and tangy. Blood, he thinks, and winces.

 

("Scream and everyone here dies. Dr Helen Cho? You're a brilliant woman. HYDRA will spare your life if you aid us with your genetic and neural interfacing science expertise. There are several experiments requiring your adept knowledge in the field. Sergeant Barnes, Dr Zola has unfinished work with you. Now come, and we will leave this establishment.")

 

Helen is still, thoughts frolicking and flickering on the surface of her eyes, and he can tell that there is a tirade of thought whirling in her. Her mouth is set into a thin line as she comes to a decision. Opting for minimum fatalities, she walks forward, back unnaturally straight and shoulders tense. Bucky follows, sidling next to her, and he can hear her slow but sharp intakes of breath.

 

 

If he moved his hand just a couple of millimeters, he could wind his fingers around hers.

(its okay everything's going to be okay everything's going to be okay)

 

 

They drive for what seems like forever. Across biting cold and looming cliffs, through great forests with towering trees. They travel for what must be at least 6 days, with little nourishment and only the hard metal of truck seats as bedding. Helen does not speak for the whole journey, eyes only glazing absentmindedly over the surroundings, deep in thought. Bucky can only imagine what is going through her mind.

 

Helen flashes him a saddened quirk of a lip, eyes pleasantly pained, and reaches out to take his hand. Rubbing circles over the dry and bony expanse of her wrist, they say but not verbally so,

 

at least i'm not alone.

 

The relocated HYDRA headquarters are still white fluorescent lights with equally white tiles, silver accents of metals and steels utilized almost everywhere. Bucky takes it all in, and fights off the impending feeling like he is submerged in water. He is drowning in recollections of the metal table, of the restrains, of the constant mind games and the dead look of Zola's eyes. 

Helen looks at him, and squeezes his hand.

Before she is whisked away by white lab coats, clinking vials and ominous machinery.

 

 

After that, he doesn't see her again.

 

 

(Zola is perhaps a reserved man, all calculating looks and a barely contained sneer. Gibbous eyes that somehow look dead inside as he watches Bucky scream and thrash. When Bucky doesn't comply and struggles against the restraints, Zola's smug face swims into his vision. Sergeant Barnes, he articulates, won't it be a shame if something were to happen to that pretty doctor? Most unfortunate, indeed, should she suddenly be - ahem- disposed of. He would then quirk his eyebrow, buggy eyes sparkling in malice, humming as Bucky stills.)

 

 

 

 

Helen knows the stakes when she pulls the plug on what could be the game changer in HYDRA's plans. Her actions are swift and significant, and she knows her time is up when the hulking cyborg soldier turns on her, forearm raised. Doctors scramble, fear flashing distinctly raw on faces, dispersing out the door in flapping white coats. 

 

 

Helen stands alone.

 

She sets her chin strong, eyes blazing in defiance, in courage.

 

I do not yield, she thinks.

 

I'm sorry, James, she thinks.

 

The flash of orange is captivating, spiraling out in unconfined energy. There is fragility in its destruction, and she closes her eyes as blackness swarms in on her like locusts on crops. Stark red blooms daring and evergreen against a bed of white.

 

 

 

 

Her figure crumples delicately, almost beautifully, to the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

Drifting in and out of missions, his mind often flashes memories. Most he is too wrapped in confusion to comprehend, thoughts glaringly crimson and teal. But he remembers some, mostly because of the vividness of the recollection. After The Encounter, its as if a hazy veil was lifted from the eyes of his mind, and he is starting to remember. Starts to remember the imploring joy and wonder and bravery in boyish blue eyes. Care and love orbiting off-white aprons and a wooden spoon in hand. The flutter of eyelashes and coy smiles surrounded by splashes of vanilla. Small hands that hold his face after a particularly difficult mission, a crystalline clear face and a luminous voice.

 

 

James, it whispers, and reminds him of a lonely song where a golden boat drifts slowly through navy waters under a starry night. Creates minuscule ripples in the turbulent rollings of his brain, while small hands smooth out his tortured thoughts. Gold of the boat practically a beacon, as it glides through quiet water and into the great unknown.

 

 

 

 

Helen, he thinks, as the smoke hisses and clears around him, delighted doctors peering at him as a commanding figure stands aside with a red book.

 

Helen, he whispers, as he watches glass slide over his world, muting out sound and indistinct murmurs, mind simultaneously flickering with images of an undersized blonde.

 

 

 

 

 

Helen, he cries, when he is free and broken and so so alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

( After the events of Wakanda, Steve returns to the retreat that was Bucky's home. He pads across the dimly lit room, and settles on a squashy couch that has throw pillows hastily assembled. He reaches into what was Bucky's backpack, having nabbed it last minute off the white counter, remembering how desperately Bucky had taken it. His hands trace the leather-bound notebooks, his fingers explore and trickle across cream pages sprawled with words.

 

Bucky's handwriting is scratchy, hurried, as if he was afraid of forgetting if he waited any longer.

 

favourite scent was vanilla  
hands flutter when she talks  
creamy curve of neck in white collars clean and crisp  
curses in korean when worried  
lighter than gear on me  
the first time awake she was an angel and lights too bright  
when she slept everything was still

 

and the short sparse recollections go on and on and on (Steve catches glimpses of his name, and tries to breathe through the suffocation.)

but more so, he reads fragmented sentences aplenty talking about someone he knows naught about.

He muses about the prospects of Bucky falling in love (entirely plausible), as he imagines intertwining invisible lines spanning everywhere that bisect and connect millions of people by forces unknown. 

Fate, he scoffs bitterly, is such a duality.

A juxtaposition to the sparse writing, would be the intricately detailed sketches. Sketches from a multitude of perspectives and stills in his life. A lady, a nurse perhaps, smiling over one shoulder. Tucking bandages away, sitting by a bedside, leaning over patients, smiling impishly, dancing joyfully, staring emptily.

 

Steve feels a bit like he's intruded on something heartbreakingly intimate, as he stumbles across portrait after portrait, faces painstakingly drawn out, eyes curving in elation and lips spreading wide and bright, face downcast and empty as her profile looks off to the left, a sleeping figure illuminated by falling moonlight.

 

Finally, compassionate eyes and a sympathetic smile bore deep into him. If he reached out, he could almost touch her face, could almost feel life and not just ghosts of a love.

 

He thinks of Peggy.  
He thinks of the lovely figure alive only on the cream depths of paper.  
He thinks of Bucky, sleeping deep in lush forests, remembering, and hurting.

He thinks of how they were all too young for this.

 

 

 

 

Scribbled hastily below;

 

Aren't we all trying to make good of this world? )

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, the things that could be.  
Oh, the things that could have been.

This is not a happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> wow okay i seem to have a thing for tragedy filled angsty endings (seriously i adore helen/bucky but i think an ending where they end up together, unaged after 70+ years AND hydra??, is probably impossible)
> 
> i'm probably going to write more of them because goddamnit this rarepair is so underused
> 
> anyway, comments and/or kudos are appreciated! or alternatively hmu on tumblr @vroomgogh to spazz


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